


Rule #26 of The Knights' Code: Always Carry a Blanket

by slightlytookish



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-03
Updated: 2011-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-15 08:55:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/159178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slightlytookish/pseuds/slightlytookish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this kinkme_merlin prompt: "When Gwaine gets really drunk, he ends up falling asleep in some of the weirdest places in Camelot. However, he always wakes up covered with a blanket. He discovers that Lancelot, being the chivalrous guy he is, finds him and covers him up so he doesn't freeze."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rule #26 of The Knights' Code: Always Carry a Blanket

Waking up in a stable wasn't so bad. Gwaine had certainly found himself in stranger places on more than one occasion. The stable was nice enough. It kept him out of the rain and the hay was soft and clean, at least in the stall he'd commandeered. And best of all, he was curled up beneath a warm blanket that he had absolutely no recollection of covering himself with the night before.

Still bleary-eyed, he lifted the edge of the blanket and gave a cautious sniff. It definitely didn't smell like a horse. It smelled clean, as if it had come straight from the castle's laundry, and Gwaine was certain that the spotty stable boy he'd stumbled into last night had not bothered to tuck it around him.

But this line of thought was far too complex for Gwaine at this early hour and in his condition. His head was pounding like a drum and his limbs felt leaden. He was tempted to pull that lovely blanket over his head and sleep for the rest of the day but he had training in a few hours and a patrol in the afternoon and he didn't think Arthur would appreciate it very much if he was absent. Again.

With a groan Gwaine stood and stretched. The stable boy wrinkled his pimply nose in distaste, but that might have something to do with the manure he was shovelling. Gwaine gave him a wave and a cheery smile. The boy glowered back. Gwaine sighed and shrugged; apparently mucking out a horse was preferable to him.

He took stock of his belongings. His sword was there, along with the few coins he hadn't spent on drink, and that was a very good sign. And then there was the blanket, lying bunched up in the hay.

Gwaine pondered it for a moment. It really was a very nice blanket, soft and grey and heavy enough to keep him warm all winter. But he couldn't keep it and deprive someone else of its warmth. Especially not the kind soul who had loaned it to him.

He folded it neatly and left it in a corner of the stall. And then he (slowly, steadily, and without stumbling once) ventured out into the rainy morning and made his way to the court physician.

He had a hangover to defeat.

*

Waking up on the battlements wasn't as comfortable. There were the stones to consider, which were hard and bumpy under his back, and though he was a safe distance from the edge it was a bit unsettling to think that a vigorous round of tossing and turning might have pitched him over the side. He supposed he was lucky that he always slept as still as a stone when he was drunk.

But there was one comfort to be had - the blanket. The same soft grey blanket he remembered from the stable had been carefully tucked beneath his chin once more. Gwaine ducked his head and sniffed. It smelled just as clean as he recalled, and it was just as warm, too.

The sky was growing lighter at the edges and soon the guards would change and the new ones would patrol the battlements. He'd have to disappear before then, if he didn't want to answer any nosy questions. But for now Gwaine lay back and watched the sun curling around the castle walls as he huddled contentedly beneath the blanket.

*

After that, the blanket seemed to follow him everywhere. It was draped across his shoulders when he woke one morning outside of the tavern, apparently too drunk to make it more than ten steps from the door. His legs were tangled in it when he woke in a corner of the courtyard and again when he found himself lying at the centre of the tournament field one morning. It was there when he woke inside the throne room (though thankfully _not_ sitting on the throne) and on another morning when found himself cuddling the statue of the griffin ( _so_ embarrassing).

He began to think of the blanket's owner as a friend, a mysterious and very clever sort of friend that always seemed to know when Gwaine needed him the most. For a while he thought it had to be Merlin, until the morning he woke in the throne room whilst Merlin was away with Arthur on a hunting trip. Then he thought it must be Gwen, until he woke up snuggling the griffin statue when she had been abed for three days with a cold.

After that Gwaine gave up on trying to figure it out, though it made him smile and it made his heart beat a little quicker whenever he thought about it. It still felt odd, knowing that he had friends, after going so many years without.

*

The blanket was there on every miserable, head-splitting, stomach-rolling morning until suddenly it wasn't.

The sky was dark and the grass beneath his cheek was a little damp and very cold. Gwaine allowed himself a few moments to shiver before he cracked open an eye and saw that he was lying in a lonely field - well, as lonely as a field could get when it lay in the shadow of the castle. He reached out a fumbling hand and performed the mental checklist he reserved for mornings like this - not naked, good; sword's there, good; money's still there, even better - and realised that the blanket, his old reliable friend, was gone.

It was a silly thing to fret about but Gwaine couldn't help worrying about that soft grey blanket. It had got him through more than one difficult morning, after all, and it had always kept him warm and comfortable no matter how ridiculous his predicament. He wondered if it was all right, if it had got itself muddied or torn or if was lying somewhere, forgotten. He found himself worrying about its owner too and Gwaine was hoping that he or she was all right, wherever they were, when he heard a twig snap behind him.

He slowly reached for his sword and loosened it in its sheath. It was probably just a harmless animal but it could be a bandit too and if it was, he wanted to be ready. He thought he heard a few faint footfalls muffled by the grass but when he strained his ears to listen they were met with silence. He was tempted to turn around and confront whatever it was when he heard the unmistakable sound of cloth unfurling. He tensed, ready to leap up and pounce when suddenly something warm and soft was curling around him.

It was the blanket - _his_ blanket. Gwaine would know its scent and texture anywhere. He did turn then, and pounce, and when they finished tussling in the grass he saw that it was Lancelot, looking a little worse for the wear but still clutching one end of the blanket.

"Sorry," Gwaine said as he crawled off him and awkwardly brushed the dirt and grass from Lancelot's cloak. "I just wanted to know the identity of my loyal friend."

Lancelot arched an eyebrow. "By tackling me?"

Gwaine grinned. "I like to think of it as a very enthusiastic hug."

Lancelot smiled, but then he seemed to remember the blanket in his hands and he ducked his head, looking embarrassed. "Well, now you know," he said, laying it over Gwaine's knees.

Gwaine thought he should have known it long before - of course it was Lancelot, ridiculously kind and stupidly generous and unselfish to a fault Lancelot. Who else would sacrifice his sleep and his time to trail after one of his fellow knights whenever he got too drunk to make it back to his own bed? It had to be Lancelot, who had grown up just as lonely and alone as Gwaine had, and who had lived such a transient and friendless life before Camelot. Only someone who had slept in rough places wishing for a blanket and a friend would think to offer such a luxury.

"I'm sorry I was late tonight," Lancelot went on, still without looking up. "You run surprisingly fast when you're drunk and sometimes it takes me a while to catch up to you. I hope you weren't too cold."

"Nah," Gwaine said, and tried not to shiver too much. He unfolded the blanket and swung it around his shoulders. "Well, come on," he said, holding out an arm. "There's plenty of room for two."

Lancelot looked up in surprise, hesitating momentarily before he smiled again and allowed Gwaine to drag him under the blanket. They sat there together, shoulders and knees knocking companionably, and watched the stars overhead - shining and twinkling and never alone.


End file.
